She comes to me,
Always she comes to me like a moth to a flame
She comes to me.
My eyelids flutter open
She sits close to me and I can hear her breaths from behind me
She sighs and crosses her legs and rests her papers on her lap
She leans close to me and she speaks
She speaks of things she is observing, observed
She is finding language of the past and present, language,
She furrows her brows and speaks some more
Why is this that or that this?
She wants to know, because I don’t think that was right.
Is what she said. She is thinking….I say, yea you are thinking
She comes to me, again and again she comes
She pours out her findings like sand at my feet,
I pause at the treasures she brought to me
I analyze them,
We talk, we talk we talk,
Tomorrow she will come to me again
She always come
I seem to be the flame
I will warm her heart, her mind, her soul
I will warm and fire up her imagination
And stir her language
That she will have a story, find a way, give love
Live, be compassionate, change things, make things,
Bring life through language.
She will go to them
She will tell of things, long past, things to come
Things to know, she will sit in circles and in rooms
Under trees, on grass beds, leaves in her hair
She will dance like a dervish flinging her language
To all who will receive,
From my perch in Elysium I will nod and point her out
To the others so privy.
Is pride allowed in Elysium?